A poem

Ancient Romans found use for this grey volcanic ash
the mixing, meticulously mending, never-ending
uses for this fine powdery dust,
We make canyons of from it, our pavements our feet
pounding on concrete, like my heart cracked
in crazy eccentricities, but patched up and held together,
I am deemed serviceable, functional.

Walking these streets often, pavements can testify
trees might notice me passing by birds’ flitter flutter away
dogs bark, I skip half a beat in surprise,
my eyes on the cold callous concrete at my feet.
Rome preferred a more ornamental path a mosaic
even a bare earth path beaten smooth by multitudes
here it is denser, more immense yet my street
my living street is quiet as the graves of the long passed,
we have withdrawn into the dark of the modern,
plenty filled, glutted and impotent to stir, concrete will suffice
for the dull soul rushing again, late for the train.

Chris P